


Tick Tock

by banrionsi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Introspective study more than anything, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, U guys mind if i self project my issues for an entire story, Um I'm projecting lol, Vent Piece, eating disorder mention, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26874826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banrionsi/pseuds/banrionsi
Summary: Rex has stood you up for your date. You're kinda jealous of his bond with Ahsoka. You spiral.*Contains potentially triggering topics, please check the story tags before reading loves<3
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	1. Tick Tock

Tick Tock.  
Glass in hand, swishing the dark wine around idly, staring into the shadows in the corner of the living room. Quiet ambience of speeders flying past your window. Through a gap in your balcony curtains, lights twinkle from neighbouring apartment levels and flashing advertisements. Outside these walls lie millions of people, Coruscant is a hive of activity. You never feel more alone than when in Coruscant.  
  
Tick Tock.  
  
Your head aches from the pins intricately shoved in to keep you pristine and put together. You gave up on heels an hour ago, shrugged them from your feet to curl them under you on the sofa. You sip more wine, careful not to let it spill on the silk of your dress lest you mar the rich sapphire hue. You tip tap your nails rhythmically on the leather arm of your sofa. It is black, elegant. Understated. Much like everything in your apartment. When you joined the GARs R&D unit you were making more money than you'd ever had. And so you went for what you could never have had before. Clean white surfaces, sleek and smooth. Black tables and chairs and matching cutlery. Muted grey carpet and neutral drapes. Black and white unpatterned shower tiles.  
It had screamed maturity, security, and status. Now it screams loneliness. This apartment could belong to anyone. It feels like a cell.  
The only colour in your sad apartment is the rich blue dress wrapped around you. You wore it for Rex. A surprise. Like the dinner rapidly cooling on plates on the counter. And the wine, swiftly swallowed down your gullet to and keeping you company in the glass in your hand.  
  
Tick Tock.  
  
Dark and empty apartment. Colourless and void. Life outside, people outside. Always a wall between you and the world. You feel so disconnected, on the outside looking in. Except with Rex. When he brushes your hand with his in the Canteen, holds you at night, looks at you as if he knows you. He makes you feel human. Reminds you you are flesh and blood. Makes you soft and safe.  
When you spiral and turn away and throw yourself into work, skip breakfast because you haven't earned it and skip hot showers because you don't deserve it. Rex is there and he makes you care for yourself. You want to be better for him. He deserves someone who can care for him too, someone normal and stable. He deserves a lot better.  
And that's the crux of it isn't it. He deserves better. That's why you're not even that mad, as you sit alone, two hours stood up. He deserves someone who lives life to experience it instead of grinds though it, cycling between living for spite at the world and living because you're too much of a coward to do anything else.  
Slowly you rise from your seat and behind you the leather returns to its original state, as if you'd never been there at all. Drawing back the curtains, you look out. A speeder cab flies past you, young lovers in the back and the way they look at each other all gooey eyed and soft makes your stomach tighten. You open and shut the doors behind you with a soft click and breath in the cool night air. Coruscant isn't so bad on the upper levels. The smog is far below you and across from you is a large billboard, streaming a view of the stars from a satellite far above circling Coruscant and looking outwards.

Tick Tock.  
  
You try to focus on the stars, artificial and shallow as they are and try to find some semblance of peace. Blinking to the left of the billboard, is Jedi Knight Skywalker and Padawan Ahsoka Tano. Rex is behind them, Jaig eyes enhanced and sharpened. He looks so powerful and you want to smile at your handsome love but something twinges in your chest at how even in the poster, Rex is angled towards Ashoka and she is angled towards him.  
She is young, full of life. Not many years younger than you but enough to make a difference. Even knowing this you cannot help the ugly emerald monster growing in your chest. She makes you feel inadequate. She is strong and beautiful and you know Rex admires her. You also know their friendship is strictly platonic and Rex is a professional above all else but she makes you feel small and unimpressive and unworthy of Rex's affections. Shouldn't he want someone more accomplished? More confident? Braver? Better?  
You rest your arms in the railing and your head on your hands, drawing in deep breaths. Turning back to head inside you catch your own reflection. You look stupid. Blue doesn't suit you and the dress is far too formfitting for your body. Why did you wear it? Why did you think he'd be impressed? You despise your body and briefly envision going back to dig out your old binder and tie your hair back, wear the baggiest shirt you own so you can distance yourself from your own body. It's easier to breathe without the crushing pressure of femininity and not being good enough at performing it.

Tick Tock.  
He's two hours late.  
  
Sweeping back into your apartment you slam the balcony doors behind you and wish you'd hit them hard enough to break. You wriggle out the dress and claw it off your skin, twisting the pins out of your hair. You wanted hot showers so now you have it hot enough to make your skin tingle and almost hurt. Punishment for wanting, punishment for letting your feelings rule you. You scrub your face harshly with a sugar scrub meant for legs and take a sick kind of joy in the way it leaves you feeling raw. You wash the makeup off your face and get cleanser in your eye and with each act of self-flagellation you feel your breathing slow down and calm until you shut the water off and step out. You dry yourself with quick movements but can't bring yourself to get dressed again.  
You move through the apartment naked, avoiding your reflection, and empty the wine bottle down the sink, the dinner in the compost, the battery removed and that fucking ticking clock in the bin. You send him a text, don't bother come over tonight I don't want to see you, and then you blast music from the speakers, bury your face in a cushion from the sofa and scream yourself hoarse. Scream and scream and scream and scratch your legs with sharp nails until the burn is all you know.  
You curl up where you stood, on the cold hardwood floor behind the couch, staring at the cupboards of your kitchen until you fall asleep.


	2. The Art of Becoming Human

The art of becoming human. Of rebuilding body and mind from the ground up. Ashes and abstract to structure and form. Coming back to oneself takes time. It comes in drips and drabs. An inkling of awareness. 

This time it starts with hands. Mottled skin, undertones of grey. Planes of cracked surface and brittle bitten nails with ragged edges. Fingertips that leave icy trails wherever they drift. Achy stiff knuckles and the slightest trembling.   
Staring down at them, it slowly begins to dawn on you that these neglected freezing hands are not a disembodied concept, but actual present things. Attached to you. Melded onto your forearms.

With the startling revelation that these are actually your hands, the rest of your body unveils itself to you. Your hands lead to arms which lead to shoulders, attached to a spine from which your legs and feet extend. Toes and lungs and stomach and, governing them all, a head on top. _Your_ head on top of _your_ body controlling _your_ hands.

A shuddering breath cuts through your throat as you snap into yourself and swing your head up wildly. Four walls, couch beneath you, bathed in cold streaming light from open balcony doors. The leather creaks as you shift your weight from one hip to the other and and flex your toes, bare and sinking into the plush rug they rest on. Light undercurtain flutters gently in the breeze generated from the skyway. The quiet drone of speeders lingering on the edges of your senses.  


Your hands are grateful to be stretched as you clench them and then release the tension with another deep breath. They still protest against the cold though, so you bury them beneath your thighs and the couch seat in aid. 

What day is it?   
How long have you been numb? 

The harsh light filling the room is still cursed with winters affliction. The speeders aren't too loud, no sirens ringing out so it's likely early morning. You swallow and your tacky tongue smacks off your gums. Lips chapped. Eyes crusted. A cautious growl leaves your belly and echoes around the quiet chamber you've been entombed in. Right. 

Next step to becoming human: Eat something. Anything.

You rise from your seat on the chilled leather and amble to the kitchen. Blocky and stupid fingers, slow to remember deft movement, fumble to open cupboards and slide out a butter knife, grab two slices of bread and slather them in peanut butter. You dine like something feral and half formed but one doesn't care much for decorum during a rebirth.

(Constantly dying and forming anew. Forever and ever and ever and ev- you snuff that thought out before it can take root.)

You leave the crumbs on the counter and knife in the sink and stumble back to the balcony. The chill is stronger here and shutting the doors firmly leaves you feeling accomplished. But you cant help but wonder how long they'd been open. When you had disappeared into yourself you are sure you had closed the doors - one last act of self preservation before you slipped under. Just one more act you'll never recall, robbed from you by yourself. How much time have you lost, you wonder, over your lifespan. Lost to a fog you can never shake loose.

The next step is to slip into pyjamas and then clamber into bed. You leave your starched shirt and crisp slacks in a heap at the foot of your bed. Your teeth are covered In a layer of fine grit and your hair greasy enough to shine but you'll deal with those tomorrow. Same with damage control for if you’ve missed work. You don’t even allow yourself to imagine what kind of talk you’ll have to have with Rex. Those are problems for a future you, a well-rested you with a full tummy and clean hair. Now is the time to be kind to yourself and replenish your strength.   



	3. Maladie à deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the other side of the galaxy, a lifetime away, Rex is struggling too.  
> Please read the trigger warnings at the beginning notes of this chapter or in the story tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING = mentions of suicidal ideation and thoughts, ED behaviour

It isnt his fault. You know that. He isn’t his own man. He doesn’t get a say, on when they ship out, if he’s told to stay behind at base, if the campaign is going to last longer then they expected. It wouldn’t look good for him to put up a fuss.   
Good soldiers follow orders.

So, it isn’t really _fair_ of you to resent him for not making your dinner date. These things happen and realistically, it isn’t like Rex was standing you up to go chat up sexy Twileks in 79’s. He was most likely holed up in his office doing holo reports or, fuck, probably trying not to die on a battlefield somewhere. You wouldn’t even know if he was dead. Why would anyone tell you? As far as anyone else knows, you and Captain Rex have never been acquainted. And you wouldn’t exactly be able to tell by yourself. You two go weeks without talking on the comms because its just too risky to trust that the line is completely and truly secure. If anyone found your transmission, you’d both be done for. Literally, in Rex's case.

But that’s also part of why it hurts so much that he couldn’t able it to the dinner you’d planned months in advance. It’s just.. it’s just been so long. You never get to talk to each other, or see each other – even in cold holo immaterial holo format -, or touch each other (when’s the last time you two made love?). Domestic Bliss is a foreign concept to your relationship.

You don’t get to check in with each other, spot the maladies and catch the signs before it gets too bad, just through each others presence. You aren’t there to see how the stress and grief weighs down his shoulders, too heavy for one man to bear. You aren’t there to see how sometimes, he stares at the approaching enemy and considers just…just standing there. Blasters still holstered. Arms hanging limp at his sides.

And he isn’t there to see how you eat less and less, but count it all the more. He isnt there to frown and note how your vacant gaze drifts toward those balcony doors. How your feet twitch, unconscious movement betraying your unconscious thought

You feel like a burden, a strain on him. Dragging him down with you. Misery is a wretched and greedy parasite. It loves company, and there’s no one who’s company you crave more than Rex's. 

Unbeknownst to you, halfway across the galaxy Rex feels the same way. Access to your comm line lost (compromised, he had to slash it), he stares out the porthole of the Resolute with a firm grimace. His fingers clench at his side, leather of his gloves creaking with the force. There’s nothing but space before him. Cold. Endless. Lonely. Space.

He’s glad to finally have some peace and quiet. The chatter of the other soldiers is reassuring sometimes, but it’s also deafening and a _lot_. And sometimes, Rex just wants a break. Fuck. Doesn’t he deserve that at least? A break? For five minutes, even. 

He’s just.. tired. So so tired. Of losing men over and over again. On shitty miserable planets, in shitty miserable conditions, shooting an enemy that never tires. Cloying stench of copper constantly clogging up his senses. Staring down at his own fucking face as his own body lays in his arms, and gasps out a final rattling breath. It’s his own blood smeared all over his armour, just from a different body. 

_“Shipment due from Kamino tomorrow Captain”, (- to restock the lost product), Rex always adds in, in addendum._

Drifting through space, surrounded by laughing men who don’t know they are already dead, waiting for the next endless mission for a cause Rex has no choice but to believe in.

_Always remember I am Filth.  
Always remember I am Nothing._


End file.
